


Wide to Receive

by Miku



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Barebacking, Explicit Language, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mentioning of underage and rape in the past, Prostitution, Slight OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miku/pseuds/Miku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- A prostitution AU -</p><p>Eames came back out about five minutes later, pausing in his step with a spoon between his lips and a jar of chocolate spread in hand. Their eyes met over the edge of the blanket underneath which Arthur had tucked himself.</p><p>“Did I wake you?” Eames asked after pulling the spoon from between his lips. His demeanor seemed far more peaceful than it had been earlier and Arthur could feel himself relax and tense at the same time... which should be impossible.</p><p>“I'm not a good sleeper.” Arthur replied.</p><p>Eames nodded quietly, eyes shifting away and then scooping some more chocolate spread on the spoon and placing it back into his mouth, keeping it there to melt.</p><p>“Not hard to believe.” Eames murmured around the spoon, pulling it from between his lips once more and Arthur was torn between feeling suspicious and aroused.</p><p>“How long have you been doing this?” He asked, waving the utensil in circles at Arthur, as if this was a universal sign for 'prostituting oneself'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wide to Receive

Be sure to read the **tags** as they **include warnings**. Thanks.

* * *

 

 

Arthur had lost his virginity six years ago, and sharing the fact he now was eighteen might already inform you that it hadn't happened lovingly in a bed with rose petals and white sheets of purity.

 

Arthur had lost his innocence about three months after the initial assault because many debauched nights had followed long enough to exorcise what little child had been left within him.  
It had been a crude click of the brain. A stomp that pressed the matter he'd lost and there wasn't anything left to win, anymore.

 

Six years later and here Arthur was; freshly rolled out of _another_ foster home which hadn't been anything but horrible to him, and having walked a path with the 'wrong' friends he now lived wherever he might roam and earned money by selling the only thing he knew would please others. His body.

 

Arthur mostly worked for a man called Saito. Though emotionally constipated, the Japanese man was vengeful and somehow considerate of his 'boys and girls'. Basically, Saito ran a bar, above which lied another floor with various rooms occupied with filthied beds (no matter how many times you'd clean the sheets. They stayed filthy, invisibly stained) and even if he'd allow you to take a break for a week, he'd have men bash your head with a brick if you dare try to escape or leave without his consent.

 

The young American's body was a gift as much as it was a burden. Saito allowed him much more free time than most others because of the simple fact he sold often and expensively.

 

Escape hadn't been on Arthur's mind for years. He'd get clubbed to death before he could get out of the world he'd accidentally rolled into, and even if he did; where was he to go? Even with the large amounts of money his body earned him, it earned Saito much more. A great part of the income was spent on food, bathing, clothes, holidays (which mostly were periods of time to have your body recuperate after hours and hours and hours of sodomy and sometimes worse) and rent.

 

Many of the boys and girls that worked for Saito lived in the bedroom they had clients fuck them in. And even though the bed made you nauseas when so much as seeing it from the corner of your eye, it was better than going outside, be molested or freeze to death. Food as well was only granted when you stayed indoors until ten in the morning and dinner would only be served if you'd come back by eight in the evening.  
It was more of a curfew than it was a hotel-like setting.

. . .

 

 

Seven forty-five on a Saturday night, the streets busy and the people loud. The city had been roughened up by the war which had ended about five days ago after seven atrocious years. Arthur dug his cold hands deeper into the pockets of his coat and dipped his nose into the dark gray scarf he'd gotten from Saito for his eighteenth birthday. He'd been one of Saito's 'boys' for about a year and a half now, even before he got out of the last foster home.

 

Many by-passers were drunk and Arthur avoided them like the plague, knowing that his 'pretty face' had caused more trouble than it hadn't. It wasn't too long before he slid into a narrow alleyway that led back to his 'home', so to say.

 

He knocked against the back-door and waited impatiently for someone to let him in. Surprisingly enough it was Saito himself rather than one of his assistants who worked in the make-shift kitchen where the back-door was located.

 

“Arthur, just in time, how was your holiday?” Saito asked with a warm smile that'd fool anyone but Arthur. He placed a wide hand on the boy's shoulder, urging him inside.

 

“Fine.” Replied the American before he cupped his hands around his mouth, blowing warm air on his frozen skin.

 

“Good, good. Go take a warm bath, I want you on the job within the hour. There's a pack of English soldiers in the bar, drunk and ready to be sensually robbed of their every penny.” Saito threw him a sly smile before nudging Arthur farther inside.

 

“Sure.” The boy nodded, not glancing back as he made his way upstairs on the metal, swirly staircase which looked rather misplaced in the corner of a kitchen.

 

Once back in his room which looked exactly the way he left it and still smelled of after-shave and semen, Arthur got out of his clothes and went straight to shower in the adjoined, humble (you couldn't turn around without knocking something over in the tiny space) bathroom.

 

As always, when back here, his mind switched off for the greatest part. He just functioned, it was easier than truly live through the moments. And as much as Arthur knew he couldn't be a healthy man physically as well as mentally, with having been fucked by large, hairy men for the past six years... he still told himself it was okay. He could do this. He'd been doing this since he was a kid. He grew up with this. This _was_ him.  
  
He could do this and not suffer the consequences. Consequences which Arthur believed you had in hand. It was your choice whether to cry and be disgusted for the remainder of your days, or suck it up, take control and just do what you had to do.

 

Arthur wasn't one to bitch and moan, so to say.

Arthur got shit done.

Arthur got his shit together.

 

The American got downstairs about fifty minutes later, freshly bathed and dressed in simple black jeans he knew hugged his thighs and ass all the right ways, a v-necked dark gray teeshirt (revealing just a tease of his protruding collarbones) and simple black shoes.  
His hair was tousled almost too wildly, but he knew trying to tame his curls would only rob more of the time he could spend earning money.  
Besides, most men did prefer Arthur's curls over the slicked-back look he carried occasionally. Point being, men liked to fuck willing boys, not intimidatingly frigid and uptight Arthurs.

 

He entered the bar through the door behind the counter, already drawing various sets of eyes even through the commotion of drunken crowds and the thick layer of cigarette-smoke that filled the space, which stung Arthur's eyes almost immediately.

After scanning the relatively small bar, he chose the lesser drunk corner and casually joined the dozen soldiers who sat around a table, a few of Arthur's colleagues already occupying laps and ears to whisper into.

 

An attractive blue-eyed, high cheekboned man met his eye nearly the second Arthur wriggled himself into the group. Arthur smiled, flashing dimples he knew got the better of _everyone_ and he took the outreached hand that afterwards pulled him on the tall soldier's lap.

 

This was easy business. Arthur had done it a thousand times.  
He allowed the man (going by the name of Robert) to buy him drinks and feeding him drunk, even though Arthur did not at all need to be drunk to get fucked. But it did make it all that much easier, relaxed the muscles, so he didn't protest even as the buzz overtook his mysterious exterior and he started giggling over _every_ joke _any_ man said around the table.

They were all in a good mood, celebrating the end of the battles and the prospect of returning home to their wives, children, families.

 

Well, except for one.

 

Arthur's gaze lingered for a second on a soldier across of him he hadn't seen before at the table he'd been seated at for a good hour. Nor had Arthur ever seen a man glare so intensely at an ashtray.  
Heterosexual?  
Not likely with such muscles, well-groomed hair and full lips. But the gloom surrounding him when in actuality being surrounded by numerous prostitutes as well as drunken colleagues and surely friends, well... that perhaps proved he was as straight as they came. Including the annoyance over homosexuals some of them would experience.

Nonetheless, not a challenge for Arthur, that is, if he'd wanted to put effort into it which he didn't and thus he focused more at the task at hand, or more so Robert's hand which crawled up his thigh higher and higher until Arthur spread his legs and leaned back into the man's chest.

 

“You're such a beautiful thing.” Robert whispered into his ear and Arthur shuddered despite his annoyance at being called a 'thing'. That's what he was though, to his customers.

 

Arthur got distracted from mister naughty-hands when he noticed the conversation across the table which included the guy who'd been glaring at the ashtray for nearly three minutes straight, obviously lost in thought.

 

“Loosen up, Eames, bloody hell!” Even with the perfect English accent, the dark skin of the man, who'd just nudged Eames-the-ashtray-despiser, obviously was of foreign origin. Indian maybe.

 

Eames' jaw tightened and Arthur could see him close his eyes, obviously recollecting patience. He looked very upset and vaguely the American wondered what his problem was.  
Robert seemed to notice his distracted behavior and thus went ahead to cup Arthur through his jeans. The younger male gasped, forgetting all about Eames and leaning back once more against the chest, craning his neck which earned him a little kiss below his ear.

 

“Why don't we take this upstairs?” Robert asked, kneading Arthur's cock through the thickness of the pants and for a second all Arthur could do was move his hips accordingly. His eyes fluttered open for a second, scanning the table and meeting Eames' gaze dead-on.

 

He _froze_.

 

For some reason... he froze.

 

Eames' eyes were a startling cold gray, Arthur could tell even in the smoky and dark bar. The man who still hadn't spoken, let his eyes travel over Arthur's face until looking over his shoulder towards Robert who had paused the ministrations of licking Arthur's ear.

 

“What?” He heard Robert ask, his voice clear besides his ear, easily overpowering the music in the proximity.

 

Eames continued to glare and Arthur wondered if he even could talk or understand the question. Maybe he was foreign as well? His skin was bronzed and his lips were too full to belong to someone Caucasian unless there'd been a blessed 'pretty-gene' somewhere along the family-line.

 

Eames raised a hand and then beckoned with his pointer- and middle-finger. Curling it a couple of times, quickly, motioning to himself.

 

“I want him.” The man's voice (London dialect thick enough for Arthur -an American- to recognize) was a sinfully attractive rasp that seemed to drag Arthur's arousal out of Robert's hands and pull it into Eames' lap.

 

“Christ, Eames. I thought you didn't like prostitutes?” Robert said, not loud enough for the whole table to hear but still high enough in volume to make some men besides them tense and glance at Eames.

Though Arthur was trained in reading body-language over the years of having to be alone in the presence of possibly dangerous men, any fool could tell people were nervous of Eames' reaction, hence... Eames was someone to be scared of.

 

“I want him. I won't tell you twice.” The calmness in Eames voice held many similarities to the emotionless men Arthur had fucked. They mostly turned out to either cry in his arms or beat him up after.

 

“Are you even _gay_?” Robert pressed and Arthur felt the atmosphere shift. The soldiers amongst them went quiet, some of them half-lifting themselves off chairs in order to jump in between a possible collide of fists. Seems Arthur had been right about Eames being a homophobic.

 

Robert's hands squeezed Arthur's thighs painfully hard, unintentional nonetheless uncomfortable. When Arthur winced, pulling a slight face at the pain, Eames' eyes flickered back to him, meeting his gaze almost accidentally.

And then everything went to fucking hell.

 

Eames got up with lightning speed, none of the men even having time to hold him back. Eames just clawed/jumped over the table -knocking off pints and cards and chips- shoved Arthur aside and seized Robert by the collar.

 

“Whoa whoa! Don't do anything stupid, mate!” One of the taller soldiers said, raising both hands in the air before gently patting Eames on the shoulder.

 

Arthur didn't even remember how he'd ended up on the floor, pretty much the same as Robert who lied on his back, his face scrunched in fear as Eames hovered over him, nose to nose though the rest of their bodies did not touch.

 

“It's alright Eames.” The peacemaker continued, squeezing Eames' shoulder. The silence around them was deafening, no one seemed willing to break them apart. Eames' eyes were dark as they focused solely on Robert underneath him, not blinking once, his face not betraying any other emotion than furiousness.

 

“It won't bring her back, mate.” The man whispered after a couple of minutes when Eames' back was heaving less; his breathing slowed down. Arthur could hear the words easily -no matter the volume- as the whole bar was silent, even music seizing to play.

 

“Come on.” Peacemaker clasped a hand underneath Eames' arm and started to pull him to his feet. Eames released Robert's collar, eyes blinking quickly as he seemed to snap out of his rage.

 

Robert stood as well and Arthur followed the example though he kept at a safe distance.

 

“You could've just asked me, Eames.” Robert muttered and even though Eames continued to glare, Arthur sensed the worst part of their fight had passed.

After a silence and pause that seemed to stretch for hours, Eames finally blinked away from Robert, turning to Arthur who he apparently had kept an eye on the whole fight.

 

Arthur stirred despite his need to seem fearless and then winced as Eames grabbed his upper arm, his fingers nearly reaching all around.

 

No one said a word when Eames dragged Arthur through the bar towards the counter, apparently knowing the way to the kitchen.

 

“Hey, let me go!” Arthur shouted, tugging his arm and not only upset at this fucking weirdo but as well at all the people in the bar, staring and not doing a thing.

He shouldn't worry too much though, seeing Saito waiting for them in the kitchen, holding the door open.

 

“Eames.” He spoke, a warning tone to his voice and Arthur blinked in confusion as they came to a stop, the door slamming shut behind them by Eames' hand.

 

“One night.” Eames said, his face unreadable and the grip on Arthur's arm as tight as before. Arthur's boss remained quiet for a moment, looking at Eames, considering before he finally met Arthur's worried glance and smiled reassuringly.

 

“Do not worry, little Arthur. This is going to be your easiest client so far.” Arthur frowned at that.  
Saito turned back to the Brit, his tone firmer.

 

“One night, I want him back by nine tomorrow morning. Payment in cash.” Saito commanded and when Eames nodded he stepped aside, allowing them to walk towards the back-door.

 

Arthur followed Eames out, not that he had a choice with the death-grip on his arm, by now bruising.

When the door closed behind them, Arthur tugged his arm again.

 

“Let go.” He growled with a frown, looking up at Eames who completely ignored him, though after a moment he did let go, making Arthur nearly stumble against the wall to his right.

Once released from the man's grip, the cold starting to come to his senses and he hugged himself, leaning against bricks.

 

Eames was lighting a cigarette and when having pocketed the lighter, he took off his green jacket. Arthur allowed him to wrap the warm clothing around his shoulders only because he had to be professional and he was kind of distracted by the cig dangling from his full lips when he leaned closer.

 

No matter his shit attitude, he was still very handsome.

 

When wrapped in the warm army-jacket which was about a size or two too large for his slim frame, he noticed the tattoos painting the skin of Eames' upper-arms which now were revealed by the simple, black, tight teeshirt he was wearing. The lack of the coat as well showed Arthur a gun, tucked behind Eames' back as the man turned to walk out of the alley.

 

He was broad. Quite muscular but not buffed out. His hips were narrow and shoulders wide, giving him the desired triangle-shape and though his strut seemed awkward, it had a je-ne-sais-quoi to it. All-around Eames was very attractive but too intimidating to truly appreciate his imperfect beauty.

 

Arthur followed him when he paused at the end of the alley, looking over his shoulder. In the dark he couldn't make out the Brit's face, but he imagined either a glare or scowl so he moved his body.

 

They walked through the city at a slow pace. Eames didn't talk, just smoked and seemingly unaffected by the cold which made Arthur's nose runny and his fingers tingle numbly.

 

“Where are we going?” Arthur asked after they'd been walking for a good fifteen minutes. He didn't expect an answer from the man who walked slightly in front of him, his left shoulder in front of Arthur's right one.  
The American wasn't sure whether this was because of dominance or protection. After all the streets were scattered with drunken people and a lot of celebrating soldiers, English soldiers. Quite a lot of them ogled Arthur carefully, but after a glance at Eames they went back to minding their own business.

 

“My place.” Eames replied nearly ten seconds too late and Arthur had to recapture what he'd asked to understand the answer.

 

“You don't live in England?” Arthur asked next, looking up at the slightly taller man. Eames twitched an eyebrow shortly before flicking his cigarette off to the side, not minding the group of young men passing by. Other than a murmured ' _watch out, dude_ ' no one confronted Eames with the rude act.

 

“No.” Was his dry reply and Arthur rolled his eyes.

 

It took another ten minutes before Eames led him through a couple of alleys and turned various corners and then finally came to a stop. The Brit retreated a key from his pants pocket and unlocked the paint-flaked door.

 

Once inside he toed off his shoes and Arthur followed the example just to make sure. His house smelled like his jacket.

They walked through the dark hallway before Eames opened another door, flicked on a light and waved Arthur in.

 

“Kitchen is through there, bathroom's right behind it. Make yourself at home, I'm going to bed.” Eames murmured, his voice sexier the quieter it got.

 

Arthur blinked in confusion, turning and seeing Eames was already walking up the small staircase farther down the hallway.

 

It took him a couple of moments to recollect his scrambled thoughts and though Arthur didn't understand the meaning behind a customer going to bed and leaving Arthur in a living-room, he'd take advantage of the hospitality.

 

He just hoped he didn't miss a signal. Did Eames want him to follow him upstairs?  
Five minutes staring at the staircase later and Arthur assumed that no, Eames did not want him... at all.

 

With a shrug he closed the door behind him and took in his surroundings. The living room wasn't too small but neither large. The house was small, humble, but comfortable.  
The kitchen was tiled with disgusting orange and brown tones, but going by the cracks and the aged wallpaper, he was fairly certain Eames had _gotten_ the house like this.  
The bathroom as well looked aged but had all necessities.

 

Arthur went ahead and got some food from the refrigerator, pleased to find chocolate mousse in the back. He hadn't had chocolate in forever.  
He found a spoon after having pulled open three drawers and then went ahead to curl himself into the sofa and watch TV. Fucking TV! How long had it been since the last time he'd watched television? He couldn't even remember.

 

He fell asleep after having covered himself with the duvet he'd found flung over the back of a two-seat.

 

Somewhere in the night, Arthur woke with a start. He'd left on the lights for the sake of feeling more safe in a stranger's home and immediately saw Eames walking through the room. He looked ruffled, his hair cow-licked into every direction, overnight stubble already shadowing his jawline. He was dressed in only tight black boxers, Arthur nearly choked on his own spit.

 

The tattoos on the man's arms apparently reached further up and down his body, to traps, chest and down the planes of his shoulder and the back of his ribs. His body was gorgeous. Hard, muscled and toned. His thighs made Arthur fantasize about the strength behind them... He must be great at fucking someone up a wall for hours.

 

Arthur watched Eames disappear into his kitchen, his feet heavy and shoulders slumped with sleep.

 

Eames came back out about five minutes later, pausing in his step with a spoon between his lips and a jar of chocolate spread in hand. Their eyes met over the edge of the blanket underneath which Arthur had tucked himself.

 

“Did I wake you?” Eames asked after pulling the spoon from between his lips. His demeanor seemed far more peaceful than it had been earlier and Arthur could feel himself relax and tense at the same time... which should be impossible.

 

“I'm not a good sleeper.” Arthur replied.

 

Eames nodded quietly, eyes shifting away and then scooping some more chocolate spread on the spoon and placing it back into his mouth, keeping it there to melt.

 

“Not hard to believe.” Eames murmured around the spoon, pulling it from between his lips once more and Arthur was torn between feeling suspicious and aroused.

 

“How long have you been doing this?” He asked, waving the utensil in circles at Arthur, as if this was a universal sign for 'prostituting oneself'. Arthur frowned and Eames rose an eyebrow.

Was he... teasing?

 

“I didn't start getting money for it until about three years ago.” Arthur replied truthfully.

 

Eames nodded again, looking behind him, closing the kitchen door in order to lean against it, crossing ankles before he scooped another spoon of chocolate. His confidence was ridiculous, standing in only underwear while eating out of a fucking jar was ridiculous. Had he no shame? Arthur experienced a damn hard time trying to keep his eyes on the man's face rather than have them travel south.

 

“How long have you been working for Saito?”

 

“Year and a half. Do you know him?” Arthur asked, not liking being asked questions non-stop as if he was in an interview. It felt intimidating and condescending.

 

Eames nodded, holding the spoon in his mouth before he closed the jar with the lid he'd been holding between out-sticking pointer and middle-finger. He placed it carelessly on the cabin to his left, his spoon following after he'd sucked the chocolate off of it.

 

Eames' eyes roamed over Arthur's body then, up and down as if he could see every inch of him through the blanket and his clothing. And Arthur thought ' _this is it_ '.

' _He's gonna fuck me now and he won't care if it hurts me or not. The small-talk is over, now he's gotten rid of the guilt-trip and he'll fuck me raw_ '.

 

But that didn't happen. Instead Eames wished him an abrupt 'night' and then walked out the living-room and Arthur listened, confused, to the footsteps carrying the man upstairs.

. . .

 

 

Arthur woke the next morning, his body feeling gloriously rested thanks to the lack of abuse and the presence of the comfortable sofa.

He could see Eames moving around in the kitchen, the door ajar and showing his (now) clothed figure pacing around.

 

Arthur got up then, not certain what his intentions were but still enough sleep-drunk braveness to pace towards the door and press it open slowly.  
Eames, though his back turned, seemed to sense him immediately. His shoulders tensed before he looked over one.

 

It had to happen now, right? Eames would make his move now. Why would he pay for a whore when not using its body?  
Eames didn't talk, just glared at him over his shoulder for what seemed forever before his gaze flickered away in a half-blink.

 

“Go take a shower if you like. I have to get you back by nine.” Eames muttered then and Arthur dashed into the bathroom, locking the door securely behind him, preventing mid-shower groping.

 

Nothing happened.

 

By nine he was back at Saito's and not a single thing had happened. Eames hadn't so much as touched him except for the hand around his arm last night. Eames had looked at Arthur a total of maybe five minutes, had said a total of about thirty words in the past ten to eleven hours.

 

It made little to no sense.

 

Saito urged Arthur upstairs as Eames took a seat at the kitchen-table and Arthur couldn't help but be resentful for having to leave because the 'big men' were going to have 'grown up talk'.

Pacing up the staircase he risked a peek over his shoulder, feeling simultaneously relieved as well as disappointed when Eames wasn't so much as looking at him. Not at all.

. . .

 

 

Life and business continued its regular pace. Arthur received customers, multiple a night, Arthur did not feel dirty and did not have nightmares because Arthur was not affected by his lifestyle.

He really, really, truly wasn't... if only others would believe this as much as he did... on his good days.

 

He didn't think much about Eames, though he still wondered why he'd done the things he'd done or rather... hadn't done.  
It made no sense to Arthur but well, it was nice to have had a night off.

 

It was three weeks later when they met again.

. . .

 

 

Ten in the evening and Arthur was ready for another night in the bar downstairs, preferring this much more than weeknights/evenings/afternoons when men would just knock at his door for a fifteen to half an hour fuck.

Down here, in the bar... things were less 'job-like'. Down here he had more control of who'd he pick, he could flirt, drink and forget about his room upstairs until they would arrive there later on, fuck-drunk and clumsy with lust.

 

This was also reason as to why Arthur was one of Saito's most precious 'boys'. Arthur earned big bucks because everyone _believed_ he loved what he did and was good at it as well. Everyone saw willingness in the boy, a sensual innocence that drove men insane because what man would not want a virgin who'd turn into a slut in his hands... _Because_ of his hands.  
Make them feel like deflowering sex-gods and you were in.

 

This night, Arthur took five steps into the pub and his eyes got drawn to the utmost end of the bar. What had made him look, he didn't know, but he recognized those slouched, broad shoulders and those glaring-at-inanimate-objects eyes anywhere.

 

Arthur hesitated until a smelly, gray-bearded man who stenched of alcohol and had probably forgotten to die about a decade ago, started to crowd him with sappy words smacked into his ear.

Arthur grimaced, gently shoving the man away, trusting the alcohol would have weakened his physique as well as delayed his state of comprehension.

 

Of course Arthur was right. He dodged underneath the man's arm and casually paced to the other end of the bar, sliding on the stool to Eames right, seated safely in the corner, wall to his right and his back, London-bloke to his left.

 

He wasn't sure if Eames was even aware of his presence. It didn't matter that much. The night was fairly young, if Eames didn't bite, Arthur would find other customers. There were enough men ogling him from the corners of their eyes, glaring at Eames in the process.

 

Eames seemed unaware, drowning his sight into the glass of scotch in front of him, his fingers loosely wrapped around it, ready to lift.

Arthur took the time to observe the man's profile. He was very handsome and if Arthur didn't believe in 'all men are the same' like a fucking prudent divorced house-wife... he'd like to get to know him and date him like normal people did.

 

It wasn't until some time had passed before Eames finally woke from his stare and raised the glass to his lips. Arthur watched, feeling too hot when focusing on Eames' full lips being licked to prepare for the onslaught of overpriced scotch.

 

The glass paused against his lips.

 

“Arthur, was it?” He asked easily, his words hollow in the tumbler and his breath fogging the edges. He didn't look at Arthur and instead gulped down the whole glass. Arthur wasn't over the fact that Eames' accent rolled his name so erotically over tongue through lips, and thus blinked dumbly when Eames finally turned his head, looking at him with an amused curl on his lips and a questioning eyebrow lifted.

 

“Y-yeah, Arthur.” Arthur stupidly stumbled over the simplest word in the universe before awkwardly shaking the hand Eames had offered him.

 

“I never quite introduced myself properly. The name's Eames.” Eames smiled, or smirked, hard to tell in the smoky darkness of the pub. Arthur wasn't sure if the rush in his ears was created by the bassline of the music which was of a genre that generally lacked basslines and more so overdosed on whining voices singing about _rings of fires_ and _still having got the blues for someone_.  
It was more likely the rush was created by his own blood running hot and hard through his system because of the warm hand still clasping his' and the full-lipped smirk directed at him. Arthur greedily reveled in the little attention and focus Eames was granting him.  


“Nice to meet you.” Eames continued when it was obvious Arthur was too busy shoving away images of blow-jobs and wall-fucking to even comprehend there was a conversation going.

 

Arthur nodded quickly, pulling his hand back as if he'd burned it and straightening up on his barstool.

 

“Reason as to why you chose to sit with me?” Eames casually asked and then continued to speak before Arthur could reply.

 

“What do you want to drink?” When his smoldering gaze lingered back on Arthur, the boy groaned under his breath. The sound easily got overpowered by the music. Eames' voice was absolute annihilation to his libido.

 

“Alcohol.” Arthur replied, his voice squawking a bit by leftover teenage hormones. He blushed and Eames smiled before waving over the bartender and ordering two scotchs.

 

“So why?” Eames asked when their tumblers arrived. He slid one glass to Arthur's side and the boy grabbed it in both hands, giving himself something to hold on to.

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why you chose to sit here.” Eames repeated his previous question and Arthur wondered why he felt so unsure around him, shy almost.

Arthur was a confident young man. Lewd and brave and even arrogant... But Eames was so hard to read he wasn't sure what to do around him or how to act.

 

“Well, you're the most handsome guy in this place.” Arthur muttered with a lilt to his voice which should make it sound like a joke, even though it wasn't at all.  
They both sipped from their glasses, scanning the room as if to prove Arthur's point.

 

“You're right.” Eames muttered not a second later, a cheeky smirk on his lips and Arthur nearly sputtered in his glass.  
When Eames glanced sideways, eyes traveling up and down Arthur's body, the American did note there was some appeal from Eames' side. There was some interest, but Arthur be damned if he knew what said interest included.

 

With a subtle hand resting in his lap, hand high on his thigh, Arthur continued sipping from his drink and oozing innocence. He had to remember Eames was just a man, another man. He'd converted too many straight guys to remember. Arthur could have everyone and anyone if he tried hard enough.

 

“What are your plans for the night?” Arthur asked casually, putting down his empty glass and leaning his back against the wall to his right so his body was facing Eames' side. Eames smiled secretively but didn't meet Arthur's gaze.

 

“Depends.” Eames said, motioning for the bartender to get them the same order.

 

Eames didn't elaborate further and Arthur nibbled on his bottom lip, wondering how he could convince this man to go upstairs with him. Any other guy would be fully focused on him by now, if not over him and shoving a tongue down his throat. The fight he put up was insanely arousing.

 

“Depends on what?” Arthur asked quietly, nudging the toe of his shoe against Eames' ankle. The man quirked a brow at the contact but a smile still played at the corners of his lips. The contrast with three-weeks-ago-Eames was almost frightening.

  
When their order arrived, Eames reached out Arthur's drink rather than slide it over the bar-top.

Arthur of course, being the easy yet not cheap prostitute he was, made sure to have their fingers touch as he took the glass from the man's hand.

 

“Depends on how talented you are to convince a straight man to have a rumble with a male prostitute.” Eames deadpanned before drinking his whole glass in one go. Arthur followed the example just to swallow down the lewd variety of replies that rose to his lips.

 

“You're straight?” Arthur asked as casually as he could manage, which wasn't easy with the alcohol burning his throat and making his eyes water.

 

“As an arrow.” Eames muttered, ordering two more glasses.

 

“Is that why you're getting drunk?” Arthur asked boldly, feeling his own cheeks heat up by alcohol rather than shame.  
The pause that followed made him fidget.

 

Eames turned to look at him, his face serious, eyes dark as he replied.

 

“Oh no, Arthur. It is you I'm getting drunk.” There followed a silence between them in which Arthur wondered how that could ever make sense and how this man managed to make a couple of words sound as much as a threat as it did a promise.

 

They continued to drink in silence and Arthur was fucking hammered after his seventh Scotch whereas Eames looked as unaffected as ever.

Drunken Arthur always had an increased desire to be lewd and a frightening decrease in his sense of shame. This explained why he'd toed off his shoes and currently rubbed one of his socked feet up and down Eames' calf behind the security of the bar.

 

Eames ignored him beautifully as he'd been having a conversation with a fellow soldier it seemed. Arthur didn't care who the other man was. The important thing was he sat just after the corner of the bar which prevented him from seeing what was going on behind there unless he'd lift himself up and peek over the counter.

 

Arthur leaned against the wall behind him heavily, glaring at Eames who seemed unaffected by the sensual yet drunk footsie action.

It wasn't until Eames' laughter rumbled through the space and with that Arthur's system with such force it knocked every drop of blood into his dick (making it harder than it already had been) that Arthur decided he needed to kick up his game a notch.

 

Eames' laugh was gorgeous, it was just a damn shame he laughed because of his friend rather than the sexy piece of ass to his right which he hadn't so much as acknowledged for the past forty minutes.

His face was so much more attractive when he laughed, the wrinkles around his eyes and the laughing lines at his nose and in his cheeks... Beautiful.  
Arthur had never been this impressed by beauty alone and he refused to believe it had anything to do with the fact he'd spent the night in the same house and had not been touched with or without consent once. Not once.

 

Arthur straightened up, retreating his foot and instead leaning forwards to rest his head against Eames' shoulder. He could feel him stir, yet he continued conversation with ease, not a single tremble in his voice which at this proximity rumbled through Arthur's tummy.

 

He smelled good. Clean, a hint of after-shave and a hint of scotch.

 

Arthur wasn't sure if the cock-blocker could see enough to notice if Arthur would rub a hand up Eames' thigh... not that he should care, but he'd rather play safe and dishevel Eames carefully. He didn't want to scare him off.

Thus he chose to bury his nose below Eames' jawline, taking in his scent and warmth, rubbing the tip over the stubble he found there.  
And god if this already got him rock-hard, he couldn't imagine what having sex with him would be like. It just drove him insane to know what his body looked like under his clothes, and those tattoos and his indifference and the confidence to ignore Arthur and not expect him to wander off.

 

It drove him insane and for this he nipped at the skin of the man's neck, closer to the nape in order to hide the action from the man who talked numbers to Eames. He leaned his right hand on Eames' knee, a fair amount away from his crotch, but only to distract all attention from the hand on Eames' back, drawing slow and lazy lines up the planes of his shoulders and the bumps of his spine.  
And he could feel him tense, could feel him shift, not nearly enough to show... but Arthur _felt_ it.

 

“I want you so bad.” Arthur whispered into Eames' ear when his friend (?) kept rambling excitedly about stock markets.

 

“I don't care that you're straight.” Arthur continued, making sure to exhale heavily against Eames' ear.

 

“I promise you my lips feel like any other girl's mouth wrapped around your cock. All you gotta do is close your eyes.” He scratched his nails over Eames back, slowly but painfully hard even through the layer of clothing and as he pulled back he could see Eames lick his lips, his eyes a whole notch darker than they had been moments ago.

Arthur leaned back against the wall then, legs and arms crossed, his dangling foot bouncing casually, not impatiently but just a movement to have Eames remember him in his peripheral vision.

 

Men were easy. Arthur knew he had him. Eames would budge by the end of the night.

 

Sure enough, Eames' conversation quickly came to a stop because his replies were clipped and impatient and his friend got the hint to leave him alone, throwing a shaky smile at Arthur before leaving.

 

Eames calmly lit his first cigarette of the night and then turned his head towards Arthur, keeping quiet and seemingly reading the boy's face which at the moment most likely looked like a debauched image of teenage horniness.

 

“I give you one shot.” Eames quietly spoke, lifting a finger to punctuate his words before getting up from his seat. Arthur followed his example, not giving a rat's ass about the shoes he'd toed off earlier. He'd gladly disregard hundreds of pairs of shoes if it meant following Eames up to the second floor leading to his room.

 

Arthur was very drunk, but sober enough to maintain his erection and not tumble of the staircase.  
Once on the second floor, Eames paused to have Arthur lead the way through the hallway which owned various doors and even more sinful sounds coming from behind those.

 

Arthur leaned his head heavily against his own door, digging a hand in his pants pocket to retreat his key and he nearly moaned as Eames crowded him in, yet not touching him anywhere. It took him forever to retreat his key and even longer to unlock his door and stumble inside. Eames followed quietly, once more standing far too close to Arthur as the boy locked the door behind them.

 

“So, what now?” Eames whispered into his ear as Arthur leaned his forehead against the door.

 

“I'm gonna blow you.” Arthur replied, glancing at Eames who stood half-behind and half besides him. He had a teasing smirk on his lips.

 

“Oh, are you now?”

 

Arthur nodded firmly but didn't seem to be able to get enough leverage to push his drunken weight off the door.

 

“My guess is you're too drunk to do anything other than slump and sleep, Arthur.” Eames said and when he rested a hand on Arthur's shoulder, the boy moaned.

 

“God, you're so fucking hot I can't stand it.” Arthur whined quietly and somewhere in the back of his head he knew he'd be groaning and cringing over the current happening with second-hand embarrassment of his past-self next thing tomorrow, throughout his hangover... all fucking day.

 

Eames didn't reply any longer and instead carefully pulled Arthur's shirt off over his head. Arthur could only plant both hands against the door, his chest resting against the cold wood as he reveled in the coolness against his burning skin.

 

Oh man, Eames was gonna fuck him and it would be _great_.

 

The Brit squatted down, peeling off the boy's socks before reaching around and undoing his pants' button and fly.

 

“God yes... I've been wanting this all night, Eames... please.” Arthur's mouth tumbled out words he didn't even realize had been bubbling up. Eames only shushed him softly, pulling off his pants but leaving his underwear on, before turning Arthur around.

 

The whole fucking room went with him in the swirl and he groaned.

 

Eames didn't seem to notice, he thought. The Brit just slowly led him to the bed, keeping a firm grasp on his shoulder and under his arm.

When he fell down on the bed (did Eames push him?) everything went black immediately and he didn't wake up until ten hours later when it was nearly noon.

. . .

 

 

Arthur couldn't feel anything on his body that would incline he'd been having sex last night and with a pained groan he got up to drag himself into the bathroom, inspecting every inch of his body in the mirror.

There wasn't a single bite or hickey or bruise, anywhere.

Arthur didn't even know if he felt relieved or disappointed by this.

 

Later on he discovered that Eames had payed for the whole night, though he'd left not long after he'd brought Arthur upstairs. Saito urged Arthur to keep Eames happy, however the hell he was doing it.

' _I'm impressed that your talents are so developed you succeed to please a straight man -twice now-, enough for an all-night payment and generous tip_.' he had said and Arthur had only grimaced.

 

He thought a lot about why Eames had fed him drunk only to dump him in his room and leave without even so much as having fooled around with his sleeping body.

He remembered that Eames, at one point throughout the night, had told Arthur it was his intention to feed him drunk...

The only reasoning which made little sense was that Eames was a possessive asshole and had made sure to have Arthur occupied all night without himself having to do anything that would harm his delicate heterosexuality.

 

But that thought was outrageous.

. . .

 

 

He didn't see him again until about two weeks later in the middle of grinding his crotch against a semi-attractive man's hand. Said mediocre-beauty male got pulled back quite harshly, a cough erupting because the collar of his shirt for a second tightened around his throat as it was being pulled back.

 

Arthur blinked up, mouth opened in order to protest but then snapping it shut when seeing Eames glare at him, his jaw tense and nostrils flared.

Everything this man did made no sense and Arthur scowled though didn't protest when Eames grabbed his wrist without a word, pulling him out the pub through the front-door.

 

Eames' pace was hurried and his body language in general oozed not much more than anger.

 

“What's going on?” Arthur asked annoyed, pulling his arm back but Eames kept a firm grip. He dragged him along another few feet before sidestepping into an alley, pulling Arthur with him before slamming him against a wall.

 

“Why do you do it?!” He asked, his voice was loud, the loudest he'd ever heard of Eames. The Brit had pinned the wrist he'd been holding against the wall, next to Arthur's head. His other hand curled in the collar of Arthur's teeshirt, fist holding him back against the wall though he could pull him closer any moment he'd desire to.

 

“Do what?!” Arthur asked bewildered, raising his voice just because the man had, not understanding why he had an angry Eames in front of him after not having seen him for two weeks.

 

“Sell yourself!” Eames snapped, his face close enough for Arthur to feel and smell his breath. His gaze unwillingly flickered down at the man's lips before he looked back up with a snarl.

 

“I sell my _body_. Not myself.” Arthur growled and Eames just huffed, a crude smile on his lips which disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

 

“Don't give me that crap, Arthur.” He rasped, his grip loosening a bit on the boy's shirt.

 

“It's true.”

 

“It's disgusting.” Eames immediately replied, his eyes cold and his words stabbing Arthur right in his pride.

 

“Yeah, because taking people's lives for the sake of a country ruled by men who couldn't care less about their soldiers is that much more honorable.” The blow had hit right where Arthur had wanted it to.  
He could tell by the widened eyes of Eames and how his jaw went a bit slack, nearly gaping at him.

 

“It's for the sake of our country, our citizens, our families.” Eames hissed.

 

“It's still murder... just in the name of law.” Arthur returned with bite and they stared each other down for many minutes before Eames pulled him off the wall and once again dragged him along.

 

“What's your problem then? Why me? Why don't you go bother some other whore, an underage one maybe? Someone who is ruined by the lifestyle rather than strengthened by it.” Arthur asked as he skipped after Eames, keeping up with his pace but just barely so.

 

Eames stopped again and Arthur bumped against his back, face-first. The Brit turned around.

 

“Don't give me that crap that you're empowered by selling your body to the first pig waving money to cross your path. Don't even _think_ you can fool me and tell me you like this. Because you don't, Arthur. You don't like this and I can bloody see it in every inch of you.” Eames hissed and then released him with a shove to his chest. He turned on his heels and started to strut farther down the alley, hands shoved angrily into the pockets of his pants.

 

It took Arthur a second before his brain kicked back into gear after the initial rage he felt for someone telling him how to feel.

 

“Don't fucking tell me I'm not happy!” He shouted after him.

 

“I never said you weren't happy, Arthur! Those are _your_ words!” Eames called back, not even looking over his shoulder. Arthur rewind the conversation and cursed when he indeed remembered Eames to not have claimed that.

 

Fuck this Brit and his fucking word games!

 

“Hey!” Arthur shouted, forcing his legs to run after Eames who turned a corner.

He caught up with him fairly fast, but like a dog chasing a car, he had no clue what to do now he'd reached his destination.

 

So he just followed Eames. Quiet though still fuming.

 

They arrived at Eames' place soon after and the Brit walked inside without closing the door, an invitation for Arthur which he did take.

Arthur closed the door behind him, toeing off his shoes and then standing in the hallway, confused and angry and... confused.

 

Eames had disappeared into the kitchen and after a minute or five, breathing in and out slowly to calm his heart and agitation, Arthur followed.

 

Once in the kitchen he watched Eames opening and closing cabinets whilst muttering under his breath. It would've been comical if it weren't for the uncertainty of what was to happen. He didn't know Eames well enough to predict his behavior.

 

Arthur gingerly sat down on a chair at the small kitchen table and watched Eames calm down gradually until he was leaning on the counter with his hands, shoulders slouched and head dipped.

 

“Are you hungry?” Eames asked after a moment and Arthur was surprised he'd even noticed his presence in the room.

 

“Sure.” Arthur replied stiffly. He wasn't hungry at all but he knew a peace-offering when he heard one.

 

Eames proceeded to make him a cheese sandwich, offering the plate to Arthur instead of putting it down on the table. Arthur's eyes shifted up at Eames' face which remained unreadable. Not a sign of anger or left-over annoyance.

 

He took the plate, muttering a 'thanks' and then started to eat.

Eames smoked as he leaned against the counter, watching Arthur through the blue haze of his cigarette as he exhaled the toxic chemicals.

 

“I don't feel sad about it.” Arthur spoke, not meeting the man's gaze as he finished the sandwich.

 

“You don't have to _feel_ something in order to _possess_ it.” Eames said calmly and even with the hurt pride Arthur still found within himself to sinfully appreciate the sound of the man's voice. He had a gorgeous voice.

 

“Yeah well, I don't possess it either. Trust me on that one. I've been living this for years, it's not a big deal.” He took a moment to consider his words before continuing.

 

“It's not as bad as people shine it out to be. If it weren't for the shame on it, the bad name, the taboo of it all... no one would feel sad for selling their body.” Arthur heard his own voice waver and there was doubt in the back of his mind, doubt he'd experienced half a decade ago before he'd gotten over this all, before he'd accepted it because honestly... it wasn't a big fucking deal.

 

“I've always had a thing with people in denial, you know.” Eames smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 

Arthur stared at him for a long moment before Eames nodded to the hallway.

 

“You can sleep in my bed if you like.”

 

“That won't be necessary. I wouldn't want to filthy your sheets with my whorish body.” Arthur mumbled and he knew it sounded childish but he couldn't help himself. Eames seemed to not find it within himself to be too upset about the crude comment and instead shrugged.

 

“I offered.” He said, flicking his cigarette in the sink before he walked out and up the staircase.

 

Arthur sat in that kitchen for nearly an hour, asking himself if he should stay or leave. Asking himself if Eames had been right about him. Asking himself if he truly did see the truths as acceptable truths rather than denied lies.

There had been a time, when Arthur had been so much younger, that he had despised what he did. But then when other options included death, greater abuse than sodomy and starving on the streets... well, the click had been made easily.

 

And there had been a click, hadn't there.  
It had been necessary... So perhaps Eames was right. Perhaps his brain was only half turned on, the rest of it asleep with the repressed knowledge he'd never known his parents and had been an outcast since birth.  
  
No one used to want him.  
So... wasn't it lovely to find that now, every single man desired him?

 

With a tired sigh he walked out into the hallway looking up the staircase, hand resting on the balustrade.

 

If Eames was right, it still didn't give him the right to shove it in Arthur's face. Arthur would've figured it out when time was right, but then... would time ever be right to admit to yourself you've been selling not only your body but your heart and soul with it for the past years to men who couldn't care less about you after they'd spilled their seed?

 

With a frown and a heavy feeling in his stomach, Arthur walked up the stairs. There were three doors upstairs, only one of which light seeped through the crack as it was ajar.

Arthur peeked inside, witnessing a bedroom. Eames was on the bed, under the sheets, hands folded below his head as he stared up at the ceiling. He was zoned out. Thinking, pondering.

 

Arthur pressed the door open slowly and Eames eyes flickering towards him before he looked back up at the ceiling. The American closed the door behind him and then started to undress slowly, watching Eames closely for any reaction.  
The Brit lolled his head to the side, his eyes sleepy as he watched Arthur undress.

 

“Maybe you're right.” Arthur muttered before slipping off his underwear and standing completely naked in the room. Eames eyes roamed up and down slowly before he scooted over with a sigh, throwing back the blanket.

 

Arthur gingerly crawled into the bed and Eames pulled the blanket back over him before pulling him into his arms.

The boy sighed, not quite understanding what exactly was going on until Eames embraced him more tightly, his lips whispering against the crown of his head.

 

“I'm sorry, Arthur... I'm so sorry.”

 

And that's when his denial crumbled apart and an implosion of realization and agony washed over him.  
Eames apology wasn't at all about their fight. Eames apology was merely an outing of compassion, empathy and hurt for Arthur's sake. For Arthur's life.  
And how selfless was Eames to grieve _for_ Arthur _in_ Arthur's place?

 

He cried in Eames' arms, cried for the first time since he'd been twelve; alone on the floor, body ruined and with a mind raped more than his body ever be.

 

Arthur wasn't happy with 'this'. Arthur wasn't happy.  
Arthur, realized now, he hadn't been happy for a long, long, long time.

But then neither had he been sad, or upset, or anything really. He'd existed without emotion. Not living.

 

He loathed Eames for having burst his bubble of denial in order to keep himself going with the feigned joy and confidence and pleasure and lust.  
But Arthur did not loathe Eames for opening his eyes and for not taking advantage of Arthur though he'd gotten many opportunities and even _now_ , now that he was weak and vulnerable and emotional and naked in his bed and pressed against his just-as-naked body... Eames still did not take advantage.

 

Eames allowed Arthur to breathe his life for the first time in his existence.

. . .

 

 

Arthur never quite grasped why Eames had fought so intensely for _him_ but he did know he once had been married and somehow had lost his wife because he'd not fought for her enough. All Eames ever shared about her was that she'd taken her own life and that it partially was because Eames had not tried hard enough to fight for her, instead withering in denial and blindness.

He never understood why him and not someone else.

He never figured out how he'd been able to convince Saito to give up Arthur. Whether he'd done it with a heck-load of cash or blackmail was still unknown to Arthur to this day.

 

But he did understand now that he no longer needed to lie to himself. He did understand _himself_ now.

He also knew by the end of the fourth week living at Eames' place, that the man was as straight as a cooked string of spaghetti.

And Arthur now also grasped why Eames had not touched him until 'time was right'. Until now.

 

It was when Arthur laughed; fully, wholly, tears and tummy-ache included, for the first time, that Eames touched Arthur the way Arthur had been wanting to be touched.

Not a single man had ever touched him like Eames did. It lied miles apart from the pigs that had pawed at him.

 

Arthur's laughter got interrupted about five seconds in because Eames took his face in his hands, brushed thumbs over cheekbones, collecting tears of previous joy and then leaned in.

Arthur went silent the moment their lips touched and even though he'd been out of breath by laughter, the kiss did manage to steal the remainder of breath away.

 

The kiss was slow and even with the lack of tongue it was anything but prude. Arthur's eyes fluttered close, his whole body going pliant, leaning into the man who sat next to him on the sofa, own hands placed over Eames' which were cradling his face. Eames moved his lips in slow, wet drags over Arthur's before he gently nipped at the boy's lower lip.  
Arthur's breath hitched, his mouth opening slightly and Eames took the opportunity to travel his tongue inside.

 

Though the pace maintained its slow, gradual grow, the slotting of lips and their tongues which brushed and slid against the other's was enough to make Arthur moan, loud.

 

He'd never been kissed like this, ever.

 

Eames leaned back, lying down on the sofa and pulling Arthur with him so he lied on top of him. The younger man hissed when his erection brushed against Eames' thigh.

The Brit in turn arched up a bit before mouthing at Arthur's throat, making the boy's elbows buck where he was holding himself up.

Eames' hands seemed to roam everywhere in slow, firm strokes. His hand dipped into the small of Arthur's back and firmly pressed down before his hips arched up. Arthur's arms now did lose their strength and with a pained moan he took in the hardness of Eames' own erection poking him in the hip.

 

They continued rutting like teenagers on the sofa. Granted Arthur was an adolescent but not the same could be said for late-twenties Eames. Arthur never had had issues with older men, but it was nice to share the bed with a good-looking not-yet-in-his-thirties man who had respected his body for months until Arthur had nearly begged him to touch him and then still had not touched him until he'd been fucking laughing. (Had he known...)

 

Those didn't come around that often, did they.

 

Arthur couldn't get enough of kissing Eames' soft, warm lips. He had difficulties decided whether to suck on those lips or on his hot tongue which tasted delightfully _Eames-y_.

Eames made up the American's mind with licking against Arthur's tongue as both his hands crawled back up to bury fingers into his black curls. The kiss got even deeper and more sensual than it had been before, the pace kicked up a notch and Arthur felt his cock pulse with every hum he dragged out of Eames.

 

“You looked so empty when I first saw you.” Eames whispered against his lips when they pulled back for a moment. Arthur heard the words but couldn't be bothered to reply, eyes dropping heavily to Eames' lips which to his own pleasure were swollen and red by Arthur's sucking and biting.

 

The Brit leaned up, still holding Arthur's head by his hair, and swiped his tongue over his closed mouth. Arthur gasped, wanting to lean down and kiss him, but Eames held him back firmly, dark gray eyes roaming his face and throat.

 

When Arthur met his gaze, Eames smiled and Arthur returned it with his own bared-teeth and full-dimpled one.

 

“And just look at you now...” Eames murmured before they continued to kiss and rut slow but hard.

By the time Eames started palming the swell of Arthur's ass and the latter felt like he'd explode any second, he broke the kiss.

 

“Can I go get the lube?” Arthur whispered without so much as blushing. He'd said far worse things in the past, including pleads to suck his asshole harder and then that one time he repeated a customer's question just to be sure the man truly did want Arthur to shove a foot up his ass, literally.

 

Eames seemed to be holding his breath for a minute.  
They hadn't had full-on sex with one another yet. There had been a couple of occasions Arthur had been able to catch Eames off-guard. Sleeping in the same bed made it hard to hide morning-wood, especially when one was asleep.

He'd slick up his fingers with the lube he'd brought along with his belongings when Eames had taken him out of there. And then he'd wrapped his fingers around Eames' cock, praising god he didn't bother wearing underwear in bed. Arthur would stroke him slowly with a tight grip, his own erection weeping at the hardness of Eames and the Brit would wake at a point he couldn't help but accept Arthur's ministrations, grunting softly before coming in his hand.

 

That's the most that had happened. Perhaps three times in the past four weeks.

Eames had been putting off anything else. Arthur appreciated the man's patience and self-control and respect as much as he loathed it at times he just wanted to be taken apart.

 

“Are you sure?” Eames asked predictably and Arthur smiled only wider before jumping off and dashing out the living room and up the stairs.

When he got back downstairs he snorted at Eames' stiff position (no pun intended). He was sitting on the sofa, hands prudishly on his knees, his back as straight as ever and except for the tent in his slacks, you wouldn't be able to tell he was turned on beyond the border of pleasure meets ache.

 

Eames eyes flickered up to meet Arthur's and the latter knew he'd have to take the lead in order to let Eames believe he wanted this for all the right reasons... And he did.  
It wasn't like previous fucks... this wasn't for money, this wasn't because he despised his body and the filth that men had spilled inside of him over the years.  
This wasn't at all about that. This was not the old Arthur.

 

Arthur tossed the tube of lube on the sofa next to Eames, amused at how the man almost jumped.

 

And then he started to undress himself, peeling off layer by layer, slowly and making sure to curve his body the right ways and keep Eames excited.

When he stood naked in front of him, Eames' eyes had darkened at least two shades and he was breathing more heavily than he had before. His hands were squeezing his knees and Arthur heard him gulp when he crawled onto his lap.

 

When Arthur sat on Eames' thighs, legs bent at the knees, framing him, he took the lube and pointed up his palm to beckon Eames' hand.  
The Brit's grip tightened on Arthur's naked thighs, his fingers having traveled up them when Arthur had taken a seat on his lap.

But after another moment he gave Arthur his right hand and watched as the boy squeezed a generous amount of lube on his fingers.

 

“Prep me.” Arthur whispered without so much as blinking. He leaned forwards, wrapping his arms around Eames shoulders and burying his face in his neck. He didn't mind the slow pace, he didn't mind that Eames needed time to get himself back in the game with all guilt and doubt left behind.

Arthur took the opportunity to breathe in his scent and soak in his warmth. His hips rolled just that little bit, the tip of his erection bumping against the fabric of Eames' button up.

 

After a while he felt the change. Eames' inner banter had ended and Arthur felt the man's muscles relax.  
Sure enough, Eames stroked a hand up his thigh to rest it on Arthur's right hip, and his right arm reached around, slick fingers running down the cleft of Arthur's ass.

 

Arthur moaned immediately, not able to hold back the sound when the man he'd been wanting ever since he'd seen him, was finally touching him there... Gentle fingers were full of promise as they slicked up his hole, not yet prodding, just rubbing and sliding and Arthur moved into the touch, rocking his hips slow.

 

Arthur's hands roamed over the man's muscled shoulder, squeezing traps before his fingers found a more secure place in the short hairs in the nape of his neck, scratching and twisting.

Eames hummed quietly, head dipping and his lips brushed over Arthur's throat whilst his fingers continued the slow, gentle pace to prepare Arthur's hole.

 

“Eames...” Arthur breathed when he could feel himself growing uncomfortably hot by the lack of stimulation, his cock was leaking pre-cum, which smeared Eames' shirt each time he moved his hips forward.

 

Eames got the hint, luckily enough, and the tip of his middle-finger prodded against the tight muscle.

 

“Yes.” Arthur whispered into Eames' ear, feeling the man's whole body shudder when he licked the shell.  
Arthur arched his back, holding still and tilting his hips so his hole was easier to access in the awkward angle.

 

When Eames sunk teeth into the flesh of Arthur's throat, it distracted him minutely from the finger sliding inside him in one go. Arthur moaned and dug his fingernails in the nape of Eames' neck. Eames on the other hand kept quiet though Arthur could hear his teeth grind.

 

He didn't move for a while, allowing the body to accept the intrusion. It didn't take long, Arthur wasn't a virgin but he hadn't had sex in the last month so it still took longer than it used to.

When Eames felt Arthur's muscles relax around his finger, he pulled it out slowly and the scraping heat took Arthur's breath away.

 

He held on tightly, panting on the man's shoulder and vaguely noting he was probably drooling on it as well. But that didn't matter at all, especially not when the man pressed his finger back inside, a long slow slide. His finger was thick and long, of course not close to the width and length of a dick, but nonetheless _very_ pleasing.

 

Eames continued to fuck him slowly and Arthur moved with him carefully.

 

“God, Eames.” Arthur hissed and then gasped when Eames slid two fingers inside without warning. And it felt fucking great. It shut down his brain, all that existed was Eames and him and their bodies enjoying each other's ministrations.

 

Eames' free hand pressed against the small of his back, flattening his body against Eames' chest, but arching it to still access his hole. He wrapped his arm around him, holding him tightly as he increased the pace of his fingers sliding in and out of Arthur.

 

Arthur exhaled tiny ' _ah_ 's and ' _oh_ 's each time Eames' fingers shoved inside and when he felt Eames line up another finger with the two still inside him with the tips; Arthur encouragingly suckled on the man's neck or shoulder or throat, fuck if he knew where the hell he was.

 

When sliding in three fingers, Eames hit Arthur's prostate almost immediately and Arthur twitched violently. Eames held him close, humming as he understood what just had happened and Arthur felt the man pull back his head, most likely watching him.

 

Arthur was done with the gentleness and moved his hips a bit harsher, fucking himself on Eames' fingers as the man held still for a moment. And god, _there_ , yes. Eames curled his fingers just so, allowing Arthur to angle himself the right way and soon after Arthur was fucking his prostate onto Eames' blunt fingers.

 

“Bloody fucking hell, Arthur...” Eames croaked, voice ruined.

 

“It feels so good, Eames. So good.” Arthur whined into his throat before traveling his lips up and clumsily kissing him.

Arthur kind of lost it after hitting his prostate for the fucking hundredth time and he pulled out of Eames' tight embrace -shivering as the fabric of the man's sleeve scraped his naked skin-, leaning back and inevitably having Eames' fingers slip out of him.

 

“I can't take much more. I wanna cum with your cock inside me.” Arthur whispered feverishly, looking down as he fumbled with Eames' belt and fly. Eames helped him undoing his slacks and Arthur felt like crying when he pulled out Eames rock-hard cock. It pulsed in his hand, glad with the attention and the head was swollen red.

 

Arthur rose on his knees, which ached with having been bent for so long. He couldn't care less.  
Eames scooted a bit lower in his seat and watched, lips parted, hair disheveled and pupils blow as Arthur straddled him, guiding his dick to his hole.

 

Arthur was grateful for Eames having sent him to a professional doctor the moment he'd got him away from Saito. Magically enough Arthur had no illnesses which was a miracle on its own even with the condom-rules of the whorehouse. There'd been times he hadn't had a choice, hadn't earned money, hadn't been fucked in a safe environment or in a safe way.

 

Eames held Arthur's hips, swallowing and trying to calm down his breathing. His eyes shot up and down, torn between wanting to watch the boy's face or the part where they'd be connected any moment now.

 

Arthur enjoyed the bruising grip on his hips, hoping dearly they'd color a lovely purple by next morning. The American rested one hand on the man's shoulder, balancing and keeping himself up when Eames grabbed for the lube and was determined to slick himself up, even though Arthur was wet and spread enough by now.

Arthur allowed it though, letting go of Eames' dick and instead planting his other hand as well on a shoulder, watching Eames' fingers cradle and stroke his erection with the lube.

 

Eames held his cock at the base, steadying it upright and Arthur bit his lip when their eyes met. He thought he could hear Eames curse under his breath but he wasn't sure.

Arthur took another moment as he brushed his hole against the tip of Eames' cock, to take in the fact Eames was twice his size, fully dressed with a naked boy on his lap and he still looked more lost and ruined than Arthur ever had.

 

It was charming and very arousing.

 

Arthur held Eames' gaze as he lowered himself onto him, shuddering when the head slid inside easily. He paused and groaned around a chuckle as he watched Eames' eyes close, his jaw go slack and his head tilt backwards to rest against the sofa's back.

 

“Eames... Have you ever fucked a boy?” Arthur asked lewdly and Eames' grip on his hip tightened painfully.  
Arthur guessed that was a no.

 

When he slid down farther, Eames let go of his dick and instead brushed the hand up Arthur's chest. Eames watched as he brushed a calloused thumb over one of Arthur's bright-pink nipples. The American only twitched a little but didn't pause the excruciating slow pace of taking in Eames' erection.

 

He breathed deeply, his chest seeming to expand as his heart wanted to burst, when his cheeks finally came to rest on Eames' thighs. The rough fabric of Eames' slacks against his naked skin was an odd turn-on.

 

Eames' thumb lost all interest in Arthur's nipple. The hand instead brushed up, stroking Arthur's throat before traveling back down to grab onto his shoulder.

 

Arthur felt full. So full in the best way possible. He had to breathe for a moment, just take it all in, allow his body to adjust as much as his mind needed to settle with the knowledge this was the best fuck of his life already, and they hadn't even started yet.

 

“Have you got the slightest idea of how bloody beautiful you look right now?” Eames asked. His voice which was raspy of its own, now nearly lost all its volume and ability to form words with the lust traveling through his system.

Arthur didn't reply, didn't need to, and instead tilted back his head, baring his throat and then moving up Eames' arousal until only the head was inside.

 

The tension was thick in the moment Arthur and Eames kept still, waiting for the other to move.  
Arthur though, was the most impatient and after five long seconds of breathing, he lowered himself back onto Eames' cock, the slide smooth and deep.

 

Eames' grip tightened even more and Arthur watched him beneath hooded lids. Eames looked absolutely wrecked.

Arthur moved up again, whining at the fullness leaving his hole until he nudged back down, harder than before, gasping at the lovely intrusion.

 

“Jesus, Mary, fuck... Arthur.” Eames groaned and Arthur took the moment to slump his body against him.

 

“Fuck me, Eames. Come on...” Arthur whispered against Eames' lips and he could almost feel the shift in the man underneath him.

 

Eames scooted a bit down on his seat, angling his hips with feet firmly planted on the floor and Arthur wrapped his arms around his neck, holding himself up and steady to be fucked.

The Brit's rough-skinned hands took a moment to slide from Arthur's hips to his ass, kneading the cheeks before a few of his fingers gingerly touched the rim of the boy's hole, hissing as he felt his cock stretching it.

 

And then he finally, finally began fucking him in earnest.

Arthur gasped when Eames shoved back inside, hard and fast, the head of his cock brushing over his prostate for a split second.

The movement and angle made Arthur jolt on every slide in and it took Eames only about seven thrusts before Arthur was whining, mewling and nearly sobbing into the man's mouth. Their lips were touching, but they both were too taken by lust and too focused on the pleasure to ever be able to properly kiss one another.  
So they just breathed, together, their bodies moving together, swallowing each other's sounds and air. When Eames slid a hand up Arthur's back -the other one still having a firm grip on his ass- the movement went easily because Arthur's skin was slick with sweat.  
He couldn't even understand how Eames managed to keep all his clothes on right now because he himself felt like he'd spontaneously combust any given minute.

 

Arthur moaned pathetically as his dick kept bumping against Eames' stomach each time the man would thrust up. Arthur wanted to grind down but it was impossible to do without having Eames slip out of him and interrupt the wonderful strokes over his prostate, over and over and over again until he went cross-eyed by it.

 

“Eames... Eames.” Arthur gasped the man's name each time he shoved his hardness inside of him. It wasn't a minute later before Arthur felt his orgasm building. Even with the lack of friction against his erection, he could still feel it pulsing closer and closer to release and it was the sweetest agony.  
Arthur bordered on the edge of tipping over into climax and it kept going on forever until finally...

 

Eames growled, the sound barely audible above their gasps and pants. It was this rumbling, carnal sound that pushed Arthur over the edge.

 

Arthur choked on the intensity of the orgasm. He'd never been jolted with this amount of pleasure ever before, especially not untouched. He dropped his head on Eames' shoulder, his hips riding and grinding Eames' dick deeper and harder inside as his seed kept spilling and he vaguely could hear Eames moan with him, cursing and whispering his name.

 

It took Arthur forever to come back down from the blinding climax. And when he did, Eames was right there with him, smiling softly, arms wrapped around his exhausted body.

Arthur realized after that, that Eames had come. He pouted distractedly because he'd missed it, but soon enough reveled in the slick heat inside him which started leaking out around Eames' softening cock.

 

“I finally get why the French call it 'the little death'.” Arthur muttered after a while and Eames just chuckled. The sound vibrated through his chest and with that Arthur's.

 

Eames nuzzled his nose under Arthur's jawline, kissing his throat and Arthur melted into him. This was definitely the most enjoyable post-coital cuddle-session he'd ever experienced, if not the first.

 

“Let's go to bed, hm?” Eames asked and for some reason, this time, the words hit Arthur hard.  
Eames had said that a lot but now... now that his brain was clear of all thoughts, open and wide to receive whatever the Brit desired to grant him... well, Arthur just soaked into the words.  
  
The domestic setting... Those words inclining they did indeed lived with each other, in the same house, as a couple. They were a couple.  
Eames wasn't one of those men.  
And Arthur...

 

Arthur wasn't any man's possession no more.  
Arthur no longer remained victimized .

 

Arthur was not a victim.  
Not anymore.  
Not with Eames.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
